Several iterations of this essay were published at the old NA Confidential.
A few years ago one Sunday we went for a stroll and passed a here-today, gone-tomorrow evangelistic church occupying an old shotgun house that had witnessed far better days.
A graying middle-aged man I’d never seen before was standing out front, and he waved animatedly as we passed. I stopped and looked at him with as dull and disinterested an expression as I could muster, but he was undeterred.
“Some Sunday, why don’t you come to church with us?”
I stopped and thought about it. “Sure, as long as you’ll come to my church with me.”
Now he was the one pausing to think. “Where’s your church?”
Got him.
“Any pub will do.”
We kept walking. I never saw him again.
—
Ordinary and otherwise forgettable days, whether near and far, are often the ones I remember best, especially if the memory is marked by the presence of beer.
Maybe a quiet glass of New Glarus Wisconsin Belgian Red from my dwindling stash to accompany a good book, or schlepping ......
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